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5 Things My Friends Need To Do For Me When I Die

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I came to terms with the reality that I’m going to die long ago. I fully expect to slough off this mortal coil at an age that would cause some people to say, “he left us too young,” but will cause most to say about me, “I can’t believe he made it this far.” So, in the event that this happens anytime before I’m able to give these instructions in person, I want this to serve as my final list of demands for my friends.

1. Clear my browser history.

This is step number one. As soon as the body is identified, get to my fucking computer and delete everything. In fact, if you saw me go down and you know for a fact I’m not going to make it, don’t even wait for my body to quit pumping blood. Just go. If I have time for important last words, I’ll tell them to the paramedic and give him the instructions on how to find you. I wouldn’t worry about it, though. I’m barely a source of decent jokes in life, so I doubt I’ll have much wisdom in death. Delete the history, delete the cookies, and do a hard wipe on the drive. In fact, fuck it. Burn the computer when the deed is done, then scatter the charred pieces into each of the five oceans so that they shall never meet again. We cannot be too careful with the evidence of my darkest Internet searches.

2. Divy up my stuff the way it should be.

I don’t own nearly enough in this world to set up a will, so my plan is basically to appoint my least irresponsible friend as the arbitrator of who gets what. He can decide who would do the most good with my decent pair of sheets, shelves of unread books, and weird collection of movie posters–except for my portrait of Chewbacca dressed as Evel Knievel. I want that thing to hang in a museum wing paid for by the richest person you can manage to blackmail, because it’s the fucking best piece of art I’ve ever seen in my life. The most valuable thing I own is my computer, but we’ve already established that you’ll scatter it among the corners of the earth, so no need to worry about that. If you guys want to fight over my two pairs of $4 sunglasses, that’s up to you.

3. Get drunk.

Start at the funeral. This is not a somber moment. The fact that I made it however far I did is a miracle in and of itself, so you’re celebrating an accomplishment here. If I was there, I’d have a flask right there next to you. Don’t say or do anything that will offend my parents, mind you, but say your goodbyes and get tanked. Bribe the bartender to buy out the jukebox for the night and play the songs I liked. Tell a bunch of totally exaggerated stories about me to the girls you’re chatting up. And for God’s sake, please use my death as a way to get sympathy sex, guys. I’m only going to die once, so take advantage of that while you can. Shit, spend a whole week coming to the bar “right after my funeral.” I was a hell of a wingman for you when I was still breathing, but I’ll be an even better one when you can use your sadness to manipulate women for sex. Classy shit, my friends.

4. Stay the fuck away from my girlfriend.

I’m dead, Watkins, not in oblivion. She’s still off limits.

5. Lie in my eulogy.

The real stories are for the bar, guys. My parents and extended family don’t need to know what really happened in New Orleans, or about why half of us are banned from multiple Vegas casinos, or how exactly I managed to get home from the beach on July 4, 2013. I need my memory to be as pristine as absolutely possible for them. They’ve done a lot of great things for me in my life, and I need that to be rewarded at the very least by my entire reputation not being sullied by the truth. Plus, those stories aren’t for them. They’re for you guys to tell, and continue to add on to in my absence.

Oh, and one last thing. Don’t forget to put the phrase we talked about on my headstone. It might confuse my parents, but you can probably play it off as vandalism.

“Temptation got the best of him.”

Damn right it did.

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Randall J. Knox

Randall J. Knox (known colloquially to his friends as "Knox") left his native Texas a few years ago, and moved to Los Angeles in his '03 Buick Regal named LeRoi to write movies with his jackass college buddies. His favorite things in life include bourbon that's above his pay grade, mix CDs, and Kevin Costner films. He isn't sure what "dad jeans" are exactly, but he knows he wants a pair.

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